


TF2 Valentine’s Week 2021

by HankTalking



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Canon-Typical Violence, Couch Cuddles, Dad Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Dad Spy (Team Fortress 2), Eye Trauma, Flowers, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nightmares, School Dances, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HankTalking/pseuds/HankTalking
Summary: Event informationhereDay 1: Family (Dadspy vs Dadgineer)Day 2: Flowers (Bomb Voyage)Day 3: Crossfaction (Napoleon Complex)Day 4: Hurt/Comfort (Boots N Bombs)Day 5: Alternate Universe (Texas Toast)Day 6: Confession (Molotov Cocktail)Day 7: Valentine’s Day (Whole Team)
Relationships: Demoman/Pyro (Team Fortress 2), Demoman/Soldier (Team Fortress 2), Demoman/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Engineer & Scout (Team Fortress 2), Engineer/Pyro (Team Fortress 2), Engineer/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Scout & Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 85
Collections: dontneedavalentine2021





	1. Parental Adversary

“Think we’re putting on a concert?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, laborer.”

The Engineer smirked at him, and oh did Spy hate it when he smirked. “Can’t imagine why you were staring at us like that, unless you thought we were putting on a show.”

“Whatever music that flimsy thing you pretend is an instrument has been producing, I assure you it is not something I want to hear,” Spy said, leaning against the barn door in a manner that was certainly not a petulant slouch.

“Hm,” Engie mused. “Then why _have_ you been standing here for an hour watching me teach Scout to play guitar?”

Spy scoffed. “I am merely shocked that you were able to teach him anything at all. I assumed you’d drugged his Bonk! to make him sit still for so long.”

“Scout’s a quick study, when you give him a reason to be.” Then, because he was annoyingly perceptive, Engie added, “I bet he’d listen to you too, if you weren’t so harsh with him.”

“Doubtful,” Spy sniffed. “Scout has the temperament of a fruit fly.”

Engineer eyed him thoughtfully. “You know Spy, sometimes you really remind me you don’t know jack all.”

Spy was left sputtering as the Engineer wandered off back to Harvest’s base.

* * *

Spy had nothing to prove. He would not be goaded, even though he _knew_ that’s what the Engineer was doing, showing off that somehow he had managed to wrangle the boy’s obedience with…well Spy didn’t actually know. Probably some of that simpleton’s folksy grouses masquerading as humble proverbs. Engineer was all about feigning humility, which in retrospect made _no_ sense as to why Scout would be drawn to him; if there was one Scout was not it was humble. Certainly if he were to begin hanging around one of his teammates, it should have been one of a more similar temper, and not the quiet, unassuming Engineer.

It just made no sense. And that was the only reason it bothered Spy, no matter how many eyebrows-raised-under-the-goggles looks Engie shot him. Scout was practically a wild animal, with—apologies to his mother—manners of a feral chipmunk. What the boy needed was a firm hand, and Spy would prove it.

“The other fork, Scout,” he said tersely over dinner. “Sometimes I wonder if I am actually surrounded by my peers or if you have all taken a page from Sniper’s lunatic bushman manual.”

Scout paused from jaggedly cutting his piece of ham to glare daggers at Spy.

“It is also meant to go in the other hand,” he added helpfully.

“Yeah?” Scout asked, waving his fork in a vaguely menacing way. “How about if I took it and put it up your ass? Would that help me cut my goddamn pork chop?”

“A pork chop is actually a loin cut taken perpendicular to the swine’s backbone. What I have prepared tonight, despite knowing that I would have to scrape through mud to even reach your plebeian palettes, is-”

Scout took his fork, stabbed the slice of ham, and shoved the entire thing into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with Spy. With that he stood, and went to drop his dish in the sink.

Spy glowered. The _simplest_ bit of advice, and he’d nearly been attacked with cutlery. The boy was impossible.

Most of the table had failed to notice, except for the Engineer, who coughed quietly into his sleeve. Spy made a point not to glance at him. Engie coughed again, but when Spy still would not look up from where he was stabbing his own meal, he got to his feet and followed Scout to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Spy heard Engineer say, slightly muffled by the sounds of dining filling the room. “Need some help with that?”

Lifting his eyes, Spy saw that Scout had somehow managed to get the front of his shirt soaked in the short time it’d taken him to completely inhale his food. Spy sighed, watching Scout fruitlessly dry himself off with a hand towel. The activity was made more effective as someone actually competent arrived on the scene, Engineer providing some paper towels, which proved to work significantly better at mopping up the dark blue splotch on Scout’s shirt.

“Thanks pally,” Scout said with cheer, all of his earlier animosity dissipated like it was nothing. Spy’s nose wrinkled.

“If I can offer some advice that my Daddy once gave me,” Engie went on to say. “Always put the ice cubes in the cup before the water, never splash so much that way.”

Was Scout…contemplating that? If not, he was doing a startling good impression of a man who was actually being reflective for once. “…Huh, never actually thought of that. Makes a lot of sense though.”

“Well, now you know it. Personally I don’t believe in common sense; everybody’s gotta have something told to them at least once, otherwise it ain’t gunna be all that common.”

Scout seemed pleased with that, and continued to prattle away happily as he dabbed at his shirt.

Seething, Spy grabbed Engie’s arm at the end of dinner. “How did you do that.”

Engineer didn’t ask what about. “Spy, you gotta see Scout’s desperate for even the tiniest bit of affection. You remember when we didn’t come to his birthday party and he moped for weeks? You just gotta show a little compassion.”

“Unlikely,” Spy grumbled. “Scout has the patience of an egg timer.”

“Wonder where he gets that from.” Several long seconds passed. “Spy. Stop pouting.”

“I am not pouting,” Spy pouted.

“Look, I’m not trying to pry, that’s your business and all, but it obviously bothers that he’s looking up to someone else. If you really have decided to put some effort into this, then you need to go about it the right way.”

Spy firmed his jaw. Maybe it _did_ bother him that despite his excellent crash course in the courting of women, Scout did not to see fit to return to him for any more advice on other topics. It was a horrid, nagging sensation that showed he had always just assumed Scout’s reverence would always be a given. He certainly wasn’t going to tell Engie that, though.

“…Fine. You have made your point,” Spy relented. “I will, keep it in mind.”

“Great to hear! Now as long as you’re sulking around, help me with these dishes.”

* * *

“-Oh. Didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Spy turned around to see Scout fidgeting nervously at the entryway to the music room. Spy, who had just been sliding the Demoman’s sheet music to a nearby table and replacing it with his own, stopped and raised an eyebrow.

“It is no trouble,” he said as neutrally as possible. But Scout still didn’t enter, and as he shifted from foot to foot, Spy noticed something he was attempting to tuck behind his back. “…Were you planning on practicing in here?”

As Spy indicated the instrument, Scout hesitated, then shyly drew it out. “Yeah, yeah. Wanted to see if I could still do it, even without Engie reminding me of stuff.”

Spy’s first instinct was to ask if Scout had been so crass as to steal from his instructor, but reined in the barb last second. Instead, he offered the more detached, “is that the Engineer’s guitar, then?”

“Nah, he gave me this one. He’s got loads of these things, on the count ‘a he’s always breaking them over people’s heads.”

“Ah.”

It was honestly shocking that they had managed to get this far in the conversation without a single insult traded between them. The surreal state of the moment obviously hit Scout as well, as he began to look around at random objects.

“You probably want to do piano though,” he offered suddenly. “And you got here first so I’ll just-”

“Wait,” Spy said before Scout could fully retreat out the door. “Perhaps you’d like to share what you’ve learned so far?”

He thought for sure Scout would say no. _Go to hell_ _Spy_ was practically his catchphrase, and Spy was not known for being a kind audience under even the best of circumstances. But, maybe Engineer was right about Scout downright starving for validation, because after a moment the boy bit his lip and crossed back into the room.

“Yeah, yeah alright,” he said cautiously, his need to show off and his fear of messing up fighting a clear battle on his face. “I got some good ones. Gunna knock your socks right off.”

“I look forward to it.” Spy sat down on the bench, facing away from the piano and toward the metal chair Scout had scraped across the floor for himself. “Perhaps I…”

Scout looked up from tuning.

“Perhaps after I hear you play a few times, I might be able to accompany you.” Spy indicated backwards to the wheezing little piano behind him.

Scout’s lip worrying ceased, and an actual smile crossed his face. “Hell yeah, that’d be cool.” And with that, he began to play. It was horrendous, but Spy listened anyway.


	2. Nycatinasty

“Promise doc, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’m sure you will, and the approximately three teammates that will die in the interim will no doubt be very grateful for your extra kills.”

Spy watched all this with an amusement he didn’t dare let reach his face. The last thing he needed was to distract Medic from this amazingly entertaining exchange, which would certainly happen if he thought Spy was chuckling at his expense.”

“I’m not saying you have to pocket me or nothin’,” Demo demurred, but not hastily, clearly just as coy as he had been a moment before as he leaned on the locker next to Medic’s. “I’m not so fiendish as to tempt you away from our lucky Heavy.”

Medic snorted derisively.

“But just a few crickies could make a world o’ difference…”

“ _No_ Demoman. _I_ will decide on what days I use the Kritzkrieg, and I will not be seduced into it!”

Spy had to stifle a laugh, especially since Scout overheard that last bit and began a tangent of _hey yo we can seduce doc for different guns? No one told me! Doc, doc I’ll totally blow you if bring the Quick-Fix today, c’mon man it’s been **weeks** -_

By the time the round started Spy had to slip off into invisibility just to hide his snorting, the sight of Medic’s beleaguered pinch to the bridge of his nose and Demo’s grinning self-satisfaction too much for him to handle. It was clear the Demoman was elated to have brought on the whole thing, a clear agent of chaos if Spy ever saw one. He admired that in a man. Although technically he himself was meant to perform his tasks as cleanly and unobtrusively as possible, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a furtive part of him that delighted in a little drama. Overly flirty for the sake of rankling his teammates? Amazing showmanship.

It was this appreciation that found him decloaking a little later in the midst of the battle, appearing near the Demoman’s vantage point as he peeked the enemy sentry nest.

“Ah!” Demo greeted, the frown of concentration replaced by that dazzling smile. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“But of course,” Spy said easily as he slipped to the Demoman’s side. “I am notoriously good company. Or is there a particular reason you’re glad to see me, _mon cher_?”

“Mind doing me a favor?” Demo jerked his head at the nest. “Need a sapper on just for a few seconds, long enough for me to get into position. Think I can take out the whole thing without the rest of his team around to back him up.”

“Is that all?” Spy feigned offense. “And here I was hoping you wanted me for my conversational skills.”

Demo’s grin somehow grew wider. “On a good day I do. You know I love to hear you talk.”

Now it was the Spy’s who smirked, as apparently it was his turn to be affixed with that (admittedly very charming) banter. He cast his gaze further, to where Demo had indicated the nest, leaning on the Demoman’s shoulder in a motion that was—to be honest—not entirely necessary, and to got a better view of their target. He felt Demo tense in surprise underneath where his forearm rested.

“I see,” Spy hummed. “Strangely enough, I had actually come over here to offer you much the same deal. My job would be far easier if I could count on your…skills.”

To Spy’s surprise, Demo’s chuckle was slightly shy. He looked away as he said, “sounds like a match made in heaven.”

Ah, so he could dish it out but he couldn’t take it. Now _that_ was fun. Spy filed that information away for later.

“Well then,” Spy said, extracting himself from where he’d—perfectly innocently—wound himself around Demo’s arm. “I best be off then. The signal will be when that Engineer starts swearing the color blue.”

All in all it was much too easy to take the nest down. Spy was used to having to be creative, carefully positioning until he could stab and sap, or at the very least waiting until the enemy Engineer went to go collect metal somewhere out of view. But today he didn’t even have to drop his disguise at all, simply waltzed in as a very unconvincing Scout, slapped a sapper in place, and danced out of the Engineer’s swinging wrench.

“ _Dagnabbit!_ ” Engineer barked, which was followed up by something far more foul as a handful of stickies rolled under his feet. There was a split second where his shotgun wavered, not sure if it should shoot the Spy or the trap, but it mattered little in the end as he didn’t have time for either. The nest went up in shards, a faithful little sapper along with it, serving its duty to the bitter end.

“My thanks, _mon cher_ ,” Spy said as he returned to Demo’s hiding spot below the small cliff, pushing up the paper mask so he could speak better.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, mate,” Demo declared, his earlier bashfulness forgotten. Well. Spy could change that.

“No, truly it is _I_ in _your_ debt,” Spy insisted. “I will of course make it up to you. Chocolates perhaps? Or do you prefer flowers?”

Demo coughed suddenly, looking away again as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, good one Spy. Always got something to say.”

“I should. As you said, you like to hear me talk.”

Spy did nothing to hide his smile to the obviously flustered Demoman. He’d gotten in a good bit of teasing though, so he decided to take mercy.

“Well, if that is over, I best go make myself useful. There is a Sniper roaming around here after all, and I’d hate him to think I was playing favorites with his Engineer. _Au revoir,_ Demoman _._ ”

With that, he left the Demoman to his own devices, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head.

* * *

Demo nearly kicked the vase over as he took a step out his door.

Which was a shame; along with the flowers themselves, it was a very nice vase, one that the little antique shop in Sandflats had been happy to practically give away despite its quality. The purchaser of said vase watched as the Demoman righted himself, glancing around the hall suspiciously for whoever might have put such a strange trap there.

It was a nice thought, but as Spy was invisible and two doors away, it didn’t net him anything.

After determining he wasn’t being watched (as far as he knew), Demo picked up the bouquet of orchids for scrutiny. He looked them all over, a cute little furrow forming in his brow since he evidently couldn’t imagine that someone would put flowers at his door for the first and most obvious reason. It wasn’t until he reached the card (a bit of cardstock tied to the steam that simply read _Thank You_ ) that he grew embarrassed. Spy grinned as he watched what he’d come to recognize as Demo’s tells: the neck rubbing, the stepping from foot to foot, the muttered _ach_ only to himself.

However, as Spy hoped, the modesty slowly melted away, showing Demo was genuinely pleased with the gift. One more time he looked around the hallway—obviously knowing his benefactor had a habit of hiding in plain sight, but having no way to prove it. In the end, the anxious expression fell from his face, to be replaced by a small smile as he cautiously sniffed the flowers. That dreamy little grin persisted as he turned to bring the flowers inside his room, and was mirrored by the Spy watching him quietly from the shadows.


	3. So Long Since I’ve Touched a Holding Hand

The Engineer’s workshop had a wheeze to it. No one individual machine was particularly loud, no great contraption was permitted to disturb a man’s sleep, and anything truly cacophonous was powered down unless it was actively worked upon. Only the feeble little prototypes were allowed to slip under the radar; the unfinished, the unobtrusive. However, since Engie was Engie, the amount of half-complete little doo-dads numbered the hundreds, so even though you could walk in and not single out any particular thing that was making a ruckus, the workshop still had a beat to it, a gentle thrum that only its owner could diagnose when something was off.

Which is how he was able to tell someone invisible had entered about five minutes ago, and hadn’t moved since.

Engineer wasn’t making him wait on purpose or nothing, it’s just the miniaturized dispenser had been giving him trouble for ages now, and he was really hoping to get to a good stopping point before dealing with…well whatever was about to go on. However, as the minutes ticked by, he realized that if he acknowledged Spy now, it’d be admitting he knew he was there the whole time, and that he’d been downright rude not to say something from the get go. This odd, social conundrum he found himself in had started to prick sweat at the back of his neck, churning his stomach until he began to drag his feet on the last few adjustments, feeling that “ideal break” now as a looming drop-off rather than a finish line. By the time Spy finally cleared his throat, Engineer’s hands were so slippery he kept twisting a screw into the same thread hole and then popping it back out again. He suppressed a sigh of relief.

“Well,” Engie said, trying to nonchalantly wipe his hands on a grease rag as he turned around. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The BLU lifted an eyebrow. “It shouldn’t be a surprise, unless I misinterpreted the key that was slipped into my pocket after last battle?” He walked over the nearest workbench and picked up a prototype, examining the wrench with the radio transmitter slapped to the side.

Engie considered telling him not to go poking around where he didn’t belong, but thought that might set the wrong tone for their encounter. Instead he offered, “well, I considered writing a note, but you seem like the sort of man who keeps things direct and such.”

“ _Direct_ ,” Spy mimicked. “Then it appears I didn’t misinterpret.”

His stroll of the outer perimeter of Engie’s workshop grew closer and closer in slowly shrinking concentric circles, tightening like a noose until he was directly in front of the Engineer. Engie swallowed.

“I must say,” Spy hummed. “It took me by surprise at first. Though perhaps maybe it shouldn’t? There was always something peculiar about your attitude, the hesitation in your mannerisms, those long looks through the grate-”

“I think your arm might be a bit gummed up,” Engie cut in sharply before his face could grow any redder.

Spy paused mid gesticulation. “…I beg your pardon?”

“Your arm,” Engineer rushed on. “I’ve been noticing on the battlefield for a while now, you’re holding it strange, like you can’t get your elbow above your shoulder. Must be something you’re doing to it outside of work if respawn isn’t fixing it up, I don’t know and I ain’t asking but, I figured I could help out with it, maybe work out the pinched nerve. I was holding my wrench in a bad grip for years and got the same thing, that’s how I recognized it, and Medic was able to work it loose again.” He knew he was rambling, and cut himself off with an intake of breath, lest he asphyxiate.

Spy stared at him, as though wondering what he was playing at. “If I had a medical issue with my arm, would I not simply go to my own Medic?”

“Well, most people would,” Engie said with chagrin. “But knowing you, you won’t go asking for help unless someone offers first.”

“I would like to remind you that you don’t actually know anything about me.” Spy’s voice was perfectly neutral, missing the note of disdain that his words would imply.

“Ah.” Engie rubbed the back of his neck. “Then I take it you’d rather not uh…”

The Spy stared hard at Engie, face unreadable as that one arched eyebrow had fallen back into place. Engineer felt like he was being read like an open book, flipped through at Spy’s leisure, and the RED averted his gaze.

But, to his surprise, Spy replied with a, “if you say you’ve had a similar issue, then I take it you know how to fix it?”

“Yeah? I mean, uh, yeah,” Engineer choked out. “It’s hard to do on yourself but I know the trick. We’ll want to sit somewhere comfortable though, let me grab the couch.”

Spy looked around at the seat-less workshop, nothing but gently beeping machinery to greet his view. “The couch.”

“Uh-huh, hold on a minute.”

Engie set to work, hauling boxes of lugnuts off a mound of junk, peeling back piece by piece until there was, indeed, a couch revealed beneath the rubbish heap. Spy eyed it for a second, but sat down without protest, not even commenting on the several grease stains that had set into the fabric. Engie settled next to him, reached out, and cautiously look the Spy’s arm. He eyed Spy, hesitantly, but when the BLU made no protest he started to move the limb in various directions.

“Can you tell me a bit about what you’re feeling?” Engie asked as he extended Spy’s elbow.

“The shoulder mostly, but it reaches down through the elbow.” Spy watched Engineer with a vague curiosity, which the RED tried to ignore lest he twist a flexor wrong while doing something so delicate. He wasn’t one for performance anxiety but Spy was…well. He was something mighty different than most.

“Any numbness in the fingers?”

“Now that you mention it-” Spy hissed sharply at a certain bend.

Engie nodded, and began to shake loose the knot he had determined. Almost the exact same place he’d gotten his; funny how despite their differences in profession, a bad habit still extracted its toll in much the same way.

And Engineer worked, he said softly, “sorry if this isn’t what you thought I invited you over here for.”

“Mm,” was all Spy replied.

“You uh, weren’t wrong about all the doe-eyed looks though,” Engineer admitted bashfully. “I do um…have some feelings about you. Just not ones that would end that way.”

“I must admit it is strange to be invited to a supposed enemy’s private quarters for a medical checkup and nothing more,” Spy said airily.

“Well…” Engineer was cautious to admit what he’d been thinking about, as it was probably a little strange even to someone who wasn’t as… _seasoned_ as the Spy. Still, the man hadn’t rejected him outright yet, so he might as well give it a go. “I was hoping this wasn’t the only thing it would involve.”

“Oh?”

Engie worried his lip. He’d gotten all the kinks out of Spy’s arm by now, and his hand gently drifted up to grip the sensitive spot where his neck met his collarbone. Carefully, Engineer squeezed, the beginnings of a backrub unfurling from his hands as he dug a thumb into muscle.

Spy let out a soft sigh.

“I think you always look so tense,” Engineer admitted. “Like someone needs to sit you down and make you drink a glass of tea or four.”

To the Engineer’s surprise, Spy pressed into Engie’s touch, overwhelmingly receptive. “Mm. And what else do you think about me, Engineer?”

“What else do I-?” Engie found he couldn’t quite spit back the question.

Spy leaned back, so far that Engie had to flip his arm to keep rubbing the man’s shoulder, but thoughts of that disappeared as he realized Spy was now laying on him. Spy cocked his head, uncharacteristically languid as he peered up at the RED through partially lidded eyes. “Your thoughts. You obviously have them. Do share.”

“Well I…” Engie cleared his throat. “I think you’re far too stiff all the time, holding yourself like an old man going down the stairs. I think someone needs to give you a hug.”

“A hug.”

Aw dammit. This was the part where Spy would lay into him now, tell him his fantasies were downright childish, insulting even. Something a trained killer shouldn’t be ruminating about.

But to the Engineer’s surprise, Spy shifted his weight, pressing them both until they were lying down with the thinner man resting on Engie’s stomach. From this angle, Engie could see Spy was smiling slightly, though not in the condescending way he was used to when the man ran off after dropping a sapper on some poor sentry’s head. It was playful, almost, and the Spy reached backwards until he trailed a few gloved fingers against Engie’s pink face.

“How novel,” he mused. “I must admit, it’s been quite a while since I’ve had a lover who was serious about ‘cuddling only’.”

Engie felt another flush of embarrassment to hear it called ‘cuddling’, but he had to admit that was what they were doing right now, his hands cautiously coming to wrap themselves around Spy’s chest.

“I mean I…” Engie cleared his throat. “I don’t know if this is a _proposition_ , exactly, but uh…if you’re having a nice time I think it could be.”

“I must admit I’m enjoying myself,” Spy said, and turned until he had snuggled closer into the nape of Engie’s neck.

For his part, the Engineer couldn’t hide how nice that felt, to have someone close again, to hold another in his arms after so many years working the fields or shooting strangers for cash. It was good to just hold another person again. “Well, you still have that key. Come back any time.”

“Mmhmm. Though I will be sure to return the favor when I do. Your own shoulders could certainly use some working on, my dear.”

Engie chuckled. “Probably all those knives you’re shoving in between ‘em.”

A smile played at Spy’s slips as he let his eyes fall closed entirely. “Yes well, _that_ can’t be helped.”


	4. These Hands Have Done a Mighty Violence

Resupply. White. Sterile. He was on an empty battlefield, looking in but also out as he wandered in search of his foe, peering in every corner and imagining the man in places he couldn’t possibly fit. They were meant to fight soon. Any minute now, he would get the drop on that bastard who was looking for him just as hard, and then this whole thing would kick off once again. It was a plan of the moment. Or it would have been, if the Soldier hadn’t somehow ambushed him. Which shouldn’t have been possible, not when he had been so alert so _vigilant_ , yet there Soldier was: claiming the high ground and lauching into his familiar battle cry. Demo dodged the first rocket—barely, the new ones were much faster than the old—and returned fire. The pill went wide. The pill went wide and Soldier was still coming, raining down from the sky, rockets cascading out before him-

Resupply. White. Sterile.

Demo shouldered his ‘nade launcher again, determined to get that son of a bitch, the one who didn’t have a face anymore, just a slowly encroaching shadow as the helmet swallowed his head with every sequence through defeat. It terrified Demo. That anything that was once familiar about the man was slowly being stripped away, leaving him grotesque, unrecognizable. Or, even worse: the mask was falling off, and there had never been anything underneath to begin with. Demo shuddered, focusing on his task, he _had_ to be around here somewhere-

Resupply. White. St-

The shotgun had taken him in the back. Demo had heard it rather than felt it, though every part of him knew that shouldn’t have been possible, that the pellets themselves were travelling faster than the speed of sound. Yet the shot was all he had. Gritting his teeth, he slammed open the door of his locker, looking for a new strategy, _anything_ that might help him take down his mortal enemy. He could forgo the shield, that might be something. It’s not like the extra resistance had ultimately stopped the damn rockets. Nodding to himself, he pulled the Scottish Resistance into his inventory.

The change in weapons did nothing for the pickaxe that took him in the side of his skull.

Resupply. Wh-

There was no tactic that could stop Soldier, and Demo knew, knew he was trapped, a vicious cycle, being killed over and over again to the Voice’s disappointment. Nothing he did would change it. He couldn’t stop the deaths. He couldn’t stop when the Soldier pinned him down and managed to rip his sticky launcher from his grasp.

At first Demo thought he was going to strangle him. Then, he realized it was much, much worse as he felt a thumb shove dangerously close to his eye. The Soldier began to press.

He always hated this one. It was the single worst way he had ever died, and now he had to relive it _again_ , the memory hot and fresh and searing as the pressure built and blood spurted from his one good socket, his strangled cry rising to meet Soldier’s furious screaming. He could feel it dripping down his face, knew it was spraying the man above him whose weight was impossible to move as Demo screamed _no no god no_.

The Soldier didn’t listen. The thumb kept going, pushing into tissue then brain and by all rights Demo should have been dead by now, but the rules here were different, and he was allowed to feel every second as the digit burrowed inside his skull. Allowed to know what it was like to have the tissue that contained his thoughts, his very personhood, exploding beneath the pressure.

Resupply. The beginning of the cycle again. The starting point where he’d have to try to think of a new plan of attack, any trick he hadn’t used against the Soldier before, something that would help him even though he knew it was pointless. He wouldn’t win. He’d already lost this War, years ago, but he was still back in Resupply and so he had no choice but try again.

Except something was wrong.

Demo staggered backwards, away from the Soldier that was waiting by the door. He couldn’t be here, he couldn’t, this was _RED’s_ respawn and the Soldier couldn’t already be inside-

But, as he had said: the rules were different now. Soldier charged from the corner in which he loomed, hidden in a shadow that couldn’t physically exist in the wash of Resupply’s fluorescent lights, screaming with a voice that was hardly human since the helmet’s shadow had now taken his mouth too. Demo was thrown to the ground again. He gripped for his sword, his _sword_ , but found nothing. No, that couldn’t be right, he should have respawned with his weapons it wasn’t fair otherwise-

But fair didn’t matter anymore. “No, _no_ ,” he begged in a way he hadn’t in real life, where fear had been overshadowed by beaten, limping, wounded pride. He didn’t have pride here. He grabbed at Soldier’s wrist with both hands and demanded-

“ _No!_ ”

Tavish sat up sharply, sweat clinging to every inch of him, sheets wrapped around his body in an attempt to suffocate him. There was a light on in his room, painting everything in too bright of a glow, doing nothing for the phantom pain pulsating behind his eye. He gasped, breathing in great heaves, knowing he was awake-

But. Oh god. Oh god no.

He couldn’t be awake. He couldn’t be awake because the Soldier was still here.

He was in Tavish’s room, grabbing him, grip viselike on Tavish’s forearm, and just like in the resupply he _shouldn’t have been there_. Maybe Tavish couldn’t escape him in dreams but he should be _awake_ he should be _safe_ -

“No,” he repeated, scrambling backward, vulnerable even when he thought he’d escaped the nightmare. “No stay back!”

Pain erupted in his skull. He’d smashed himself on the headboard in his panic, and the hand gripping him only tightened further around his bicep. “Tavish, Tavish it’s _alright_ , it’s not real.”

The distortion from the nightmare clouded his thoughts, but he still heard the sharp distinction in Soldier’s voice. How, in this reality, intelligible words poured from his mouth, urgent and terrified, his features visible in the yellow light of the table lamp. None of that could be said of the specter who’d been ripping through his skull a moment before.

“You’re alright,” Soldier repeated, but. No, not Soldier. He hadn’t been the Soldier for a while now, and as Tavish haltingly regained his senses, he was finally able to see Jane’s concerned face for what it was.

“Christ,” Tavish said as he relaxed fractionally. “ _Christ_ , it was so bloody real.”

Jane’s hand loosened, and he slid closer until he could rest it on Tavish’s shoulder. The gentleness of it all allowed Tavish to release the tension that had still been wound inside him, dropping his chin to his chest and running a hand on the back of his head. It throbbed in-between his fingers, but they came away bloodless. That was good. He didn’t think he had the energy to go through another nightmare-inflicted patch job right now.

He moved closer into Jane’s body, their sides meeting. Jane’s hands came to gently cup Tavish’s face, and the relief of having his partner hold him chased away the last traces of Tavish’s panic.

At least, it did until Jane’s thumb brushed along Tavish’s cheekbone.

He jerked back, getting a full view of Jane’s widening eyes as he witnessed Tavish’s sudden reaction. “Oh,” he looked away shamefully. “That one.”

“…Yeah,” was all Tavish could say.

They hung in silence a moment longer, Tavish shuffling still closer until Jane relented and wrapped him in a hug. It was unhealthy, perverse even, that the only thing that brought him comfort from waking in a cold sweat was the person who’d triggered those nightmares in the first place. That the only thing he _wanted_ when it was all said and done was the man who’d physically tormented him more than anyone else ever had or ever would.

“It’s probably not right,” Tavish found himself saying, “to be finding comfort from the same place that’s doling out the hurt. One of those textbook, ‘bad relationship warning signs’.”

Jane hummed into his shoulder. “Does it count if it’s mutual?”

“Aye. Actually, I think it’s considered twice as bad. Co-dependency or something like that.”

There was a faint grunt. After a while, Tavish thought that might have been the end of it, until Jane said, “I don’t really care what anyone else thinks.”

“Neither do I,” Tavish affirmed.

Briefly, he clenched his fists, but then resolved himself. He took one of Jane’s hands and guided it up to his face, back where it had been a moment before as he’d brushed a hand along Tavish’s cheek. It immediately set his gut into a twist of anxious knots to have it so close again, but he _needed_ this, needed to prove to himself that he didn’t fear Jane anymore. Ignore everything else. Ignore that he could hardly breathe.

“Tav…” Despite Tavish trying to hold it there, Jane drew back his hand. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I can,” Tavish pleaded. “I should. I don’t want to be flinching away from you like a kicked dog.”

“No one has to be alright all the time.”

Tavish hesitated. Jane had never woken him in the middle of the night with a nightmare, but he could always tell in the mornings when the former Soldier sat over his coffee with a deadened look in his eyes. He knew he’d messed up too, had hurt the man he’d loved just as badly, and he felt like a leech soaking up as much of Jane’s sympathy as he did. But all that was too much to say, too much to try and condense here in their bedroom while the wall clock ticked by.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “You do so much to try to make things better and I just never…”

“Hey.” Jane gripped him. Not by the face, but by the shoulders, turning him until they were staring each other down. “No more sorrys, remember? We fucked up, we apologized, and we’re moving on. We are going to take all the time we need with that, but if there is one thing I will not stand for in this company, it is guilt wallowing. Do you hear me private? _You have apologized and you do not need to do it again_.”

Tavish let out a shaky breath. He knew, on a fundamental level, that Jane was lying. That the Soldier himself was still apologizing, in thousands of small ways, like how he was so much more cautiously delicate with Tavish than he had been before the War. Maybe it was different from Tavish’s constant, guilty confessions, but it was still remorse running hot through his system.

But, maybe he had the right of it. Maybe that was the only way he could stomach what they had done to each other, was to keep moving forward and let it lesson with hands held in front of a flickering fireplace, with nights out on the deck watching the stars together.

“Alright,” Tavish felt himself say, resignation tainting his breath. “Alright, no more sorrys.”

“That’s what I like to hear, maggot,” Jane nodded, pleased. “Now, let’s get up. I’m going to make you some eggs.”

“Breakfast?” Tavish looked at the clock on the wall, the one with little raccoons on each of the numbers and that made a chittering noise every hour on the hour. “It’s four in the morning.”

“An hour before sunrise! Now, hop to DeGroot.”

Jane was already out of bed, pulling on some pants.

Tavish groaned, but he honestly didn’t feel like falling back asleep either, which Jane probably knew. Plus, eggs sounded delicious now that he was thinking about it, due in part to the fact that Jane always poached them perfectly. The toast would come out a little singed, but hey, the eggs were what mattered. Tavish freed himself from the covers and gratefully followed Jane to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in Keep in a Cool Dry Place I just kinda added in that tavish had nightmares about the war still. that stuck with me tho and eventually i realized hey. you could make an angst out of this.


	5. There’s Never Any Punch at These Things

The gym was horrid in the way only high schoolers with a limited budget could make it. And in that sense, Dell also found it a little beautiful, as the kid in charge of balloons and the kid in charge of streamers clearly hadn’t agreed on what a “color palette” was, leaving him in a sea of mint green and sunset orange madness as he leaned against the bleachers. The song playing over the PA was chosen indiscriminately from the Top 40 of that summer, and therefore had inevitably landed on a low-energy country song that no one in their right mind would try to dance to. Unfortunately, Dell’s classmates were not in their right mind. Many dozens of couples shook along half-heartedly in the middle of the ocean of round lunch tables, trying to grind each other in the most neutered display of teenage horniness Dell had ever seen.

“Hey,” Mick said, wandering up and handing Dell a red solo cup. “You’ll probably need this to get through the night.”

“You smuggle this in?” Dell asked as he took it.

“Nah. Tavish spiked the punch.”

“Oh thank god.” Dell took a gulp.

“Where’s your date?”

Dell jerked his head over to the blackjack table. The Valentine’s Dance committee had decided they wanted to be “different” this year, which was only unique from every other class deciding they wanted to be “different” in the dumb as dirt way they went about it. So for Dell’s junior year, he now bore witness to a miniature casino, if casinos were designed by Charles Entertainment Cheese.

The one person who did not regard the horrid excuse for a dance with even the remotest dash of irony was Py, who now sat in the dealer’s position at one of the tables, completely serious as they dealt out the first round. Somehow, they had also acquired one of those green plastic visors that poker players sometimes wore, now perched upside-down in their mess of hair.

“Aren’t only the teachers supposed to be dealing?” Mick asked. He squinted. “And…are those guys playing for jellybeans?”

“Yeah,” Dell said. “Something about gambling with pennies being a slippery slope. Unfortunately for them, soon as candy comes into the picture, they’re the prime for one serious card shark.”

As he said it, one of the teachers walked up and began to give Py an earful. Dell could get Py’s half of the conversation as they signed something distressed to her, but it did them no good, and they were unseated from their throne as the other kids at the table looked on in mild boredom. However, Dell did watch as they discreetly grabbed a bag of jellybeans under the table and sprint off before the teacher could notice. He grinned.

“Good haul?” he asked at Py trotted up, partially out of breath.

They held up a bag triumphantly in reply. Noticing Mick, they waved. <Hey! Having a good time?>

Mick looked to the children’s birthday entertainment, then to the football player trying to breakdance in the middle hardwood floor as everyone got out of his way. He shrugged. “Could be worse.”

The sarcasm was lost on Py. They slid up to Dell, discreetly signing, <want to get out of here?>

“Can’t think of anything I want to do more,” he said. He drained the last of his punch and said to Mick, “see y’all later.”

“Have fun ya loons.”

Dell barely got to say more as Py dragged him from the gym, overly warm, sweat smells replaced by the cool stillness of the hall. They still had on their visor, which didn’t exactly go well with the powder blue dress they’d worn for the evening, soft and poofy as it was. Nor did it match _Dell’s_ light blue suit, which Py had also picked out so that no matter where they went tonight no one would doubt they were together (if the matching corsages didn’t give it away first).

Dell found himself being pulled to a stairwell he had never noticed before and—even though he was sure the school didn’t have a basement—going down them.

“What is this place?” he asked as what was clearly the bottom of a massive, gold spaceship came into view. Behind it was a collection of swords hanging from the wall, and piles upon piles of old army helmets.

<The theater department dumps their props down here every season,> Py explained in the half-light. <Technically no one’s supposed to go down here, but that means we won’t be interrupted.>

Dell tried to smile as they batted their eyes, but the suggestive nature of the comment was dampened by the giant, pumpkin-headed mannequin looming behind them.

The prop junkyard only grew darker the further in they pressed and, (not that Dell would admit it), creepier. He was able to see Py moving their shoulders a bit, but that was all.

“If you’re signing something darling, I can’t tell.”

There was an exasperated mumble. Py’s lighter flicked on, and Dell nearly jumped out of his skin as a bust of Hippocrates loomed out of the darkness, mere inches from his face. Py didn’t even notice as they were too busy shuffling in their handbag for a pack of smokes.

“Hey Py, maybe we shouldn’t be- _mrph!_ ” His protest was cut off as a cigarette was shoved haphazardly into his mouth. Then, much more careful with the flame than with the cigarette itself, they cupped him gently with one hand and guided his head toward the lighter.

The tip burned. As Dell took the first drag, he did feel a little bit calmer, the taste soothing as he watched Py light their own. The two of them sat in silence, watching the smoke pour up into the elevated ceiling, thinking about their classmates still partying above them.

Py ripped open their bag of jellybeans. <Fire and candy. What could be better?>

“Booze?” Dell mused.

Py made a face and stuck their tongue out.

The two of them passed sweets and swapped stories, Py pulling the cig out of Dell’s lips whenever they wanted to kiss him, mouth just as sugary as the candy itself. Kissing turned to giggling, giggling turned to getting handsy, handsy turned to pinning Dell to the wall as Py attacked his mouth with their own. After a few minutes they grabbed him under the thighs, lifting him entirely, and Dell inhaled smoke as he was reminded just how _strong_ Py was.

It was hot. Damn hot. Holy hell and back hot as Dell could taste a bit of strawberry flavor stuck in the back of Py’s teeth, running his tongue over theirs. It might have been perfect…

If at that moment he realized he _really_ didn’t want to lose his virginity while in full view of Hippocrates’s disembodied head.

He girt his teeth. “Hey Py, do you think we could maybe-” Then, he got the distinct feeling he was being watched by more than just a styrofoam statue. “Did you hear that?”

Py made a vague noise, and continued giving him a hickey.

“I’m serious, I think I heard-”

This time, there was no mistaking it. Py lifted their head, looking around as the sound of movement in the indistinct clutter, shapes of scenery and props turned abstract by their own silhouettes. They let Dell slide to the ground, whipping their head in terror, trying to parse where the noise was coming from as the cavernous space turned the whole room to echoes. As he got his bearings, he felt Py hide behind him, arms wrapping around his waist.

It could be anywhere, anything. Dell’s heart began to race as every shape suddenly looked like a looming serial killer, Py’s lighter their only hope for any light, reducing the two of them to a huddle in its small pool of yellow. The noise came again- to the left? No, the right?

It was growing closer, now very definitely footsteps as it approached the two cowering teens-

A hand reached out. There was a click.

It took less than a second for each successive row of fluorescent lights to flick on, revealing a very irate Principal standing next to a light switch just outside the lighter’s range. Arms folded and eyes narrowed, she gazed down at the students in front of her.

“Might I inform you,” she offered in a clipped tone, “that the festivities are going on _upstairs_.”

“We uh…” Dell offered. “Got lost? Ma’am.”

Py quickly tucked their arms behind their back, looking at the ground as they kicked it. It was damn convincing. Dell knew _he_ would never get away with that; he’d just have to hope that that Py could be cute enough for both of them.

The Principal looked to the discarded cigarette butts fading on the ground and raised an eyebrow.

Dell coughed. “Those were. Here before us?”

“You continue to disappoint me Mr. Conagher. I think you have both lost your extracurricular privileges for the night,” the Principal sniffed. “Please follow me to my office.”

The two teens let out sighs of disappointment, Py’s shoulders visibly sagging. Still, there was no way out of this one, and Dell followed the Principal’s sharp purple suit through the field of imitations, only stopping when he realized Py had briefly darted back.

When he looked over his shoulder, they held up the bag of jellybeans. <Well, we’re going to need _something_ to make detention bearable.>

Dell grinned, and held out his hand for them to take.


	6. The First Lindwurm

When he had been young, and Mum had filled his head with faery stories and fables all coated in warnings, he’d never quite felt the fear he should have for things far greater than him. The tales sparked his imagination, sure, but the lessons the children learned by the end never seemed to stick; he always got into his head that _he_ would’ve done things better, that _he_ would never be so foolish as to be swayed by the wolf’s lies. Instead of learning, he’d gathered a little journal, grabbed a stick of charcoal, and began to write his own adventures.

In them, a young boy—always a boy, never a knight or a hero or anyone who was already strong—would discover a dragon none had ever dared face. The problem, he thought, with all the stories is that the dragons were never nice. He would listen as his mother would weave something spectacular, about bowls of milk and scales wound around towers, but he always thought something was missing. Certainly not all dragons could be bad, right? Maybe some were just sad, or misunderstood, or needed one brave young boy whose heart was good to pull a thorn from their paw. Maybe if a little farmboy—never a knight, never a hero—wandered into a dragon’s cave and listened to it’s lonely tale about all the bad men that had killed its family, the boy and the dragon could become friends, and they’d go on adventures together.

The dragon’s lair is what he thought of now as he stood outside the Pyro’s door. Inside raged a great calamity, the sounds of walls being slammed and objects tossed, all painted over by the indeterminate wails that may have been pain or distress. No one had dared enter since it had started: they’d all seen Pyro acting erratic on the battlefield, maybe heard sounds coming from their room at night as though they were constantly reconsidering where they wanted their furniture, but this was a terrifying culmination. Everyone, save for the Demoman, didn’t want to see what was wrong this time.

A _thump_ of something being thrown against the door made him grimace.

He was hardly a boy anymore—in fact, he’d become far more like the knights he’d always shied away from—but he still felt too small for his boots as he dallied before the entryway. Bracing himself, he summoned all the courage of a foolhardy child, and knocked.

“Pyro? Pyro, lad, is everything alright?”

Noises billowed from within, but none in response to his summons. He waited a minute. Then five.

“Pyro?” he asked of muffled yowling, his heart panging at their clear distress. But they didn’t call out to him or even tell him to go away; it was like they couldn’t hear him at all. “Pyro, if you don’t open up I’m going to come in.”

The door didn’t open. However, nor was there any shout of protest, just the unceasing scuffling, so Demo tried the handle.

Surprisingly, it was unlocked.

But “surprising” didn’t even begin to cover the state of the room. The team had been right about Pyro taking a dissatisfaction with the furniture, but further casualties than that were Pyro’s personal possessions, crayons and jars of finger paints dashed against the wall, their entire wardrobe emptied out onto the floor. In the midst of it all was Pyro, who looked up in acute distress as Demo took his first step into the disaster of belongings.

Pyro wasn’t wearing their mask.

Demo immediately averted his eye, only catching sight of brown skin and a mass of wild hair before he was able to look away. But again—to his growing discomfort—Pyro surprised him, and didn’t shy away in the slightest. Instead, they staggered up to him, grabbing his wrist and giving it a feeble shake.

“Demo I don’t…I don’t know where they are…” Their voice was thin and raspy, and he’d always assumed they’d have something more booming with how much they needed to shout through the mask.

“You…you lose something laddie?” he asked tentatively, still not sure if he was allowed to look at them.

“No. Yes? Yes things and I can’t find them right now and I’ve been looking but they’re not in here or out there.” They looked blearily around the room. “There used to be a lot of colors.”

“Oh, your paints?” Demo walked over and gently turned over one of the less smashed ones, still a bit of yellow inside. “It’s okay, most of it’s still here.”

“No! No more than that.” It was hard to tell the crack in their voice with how broken it already was, but it was enough that Demo finally turned his gaze on the shivering Pyro. “My friends…they used to be my friends and now they’re angry and I don’t know why…”

That was when it dawned on Demo. He knew what he was witnessing now, watching Pyro spin anxiously around the room, digging through piles of things with a vacant expression on their face. They were remembering something. A family maybe? Some sort of past? Demo hadn’t even known they’d forgotten, but he’d always thought it strange that they didn’t talk much about their life before being a mercenary.

There was still part of a bed standing, one half that hadn’t been cleaved with a fire axe. He sat on it. “…Can you tell me a bit about your friends?”

“They’re your friends too. You make them laugh lots.” Pyro shook their head. “But! But I didn’t today. The Medic was yelling so much and I don’t think he was happy…he was _mad_. Or scared maybe.”

“Wait…Pyro are you talking about the BLU team?” Pyro stared out the window, hardly paying attention to him. “Pyro. Pyro look at me.”

Pyro turned their blank stare from the window to him.

“You mean BLU, don’t you? People we’re paid to kill?” When Pyro didn’t respond, he added, “or at least, I’m paid to kill. I always thought you were doing for it…for the fun of it.”

“I _was_ having fun.” Pyro tilted their head. Then, the confession slipped out, “I thought everyone was having fun.”

Tears were leaking down their face, and Demo jerked at the silent but open display. “Jesus, it’s alright Pyro you…let’s just sit you down, aye?”

He got up and made them take his spot on the bed, crouching next to them as they began to weep openly. He only got a few pats on the back in before they wrapped their arms around him, bawling into his shoulder as he failed to comfort them.

“It’s alright, it’s alright…it’s just a mistake, everyone makes those.”

The words felt inadequate, woefully small compared to the revelation that all this time Pyro hadn’t been vindictive, but intensely delusional, distraught that the Medic they’d burned alive wasn’t their friend. Demo didn’t know the first thing about tackling this, about what you’re supposed to say to someone who’d just found out they’d spent the last three years killing people; everyone he’d ever known was desensitized to that sort of stuff. He’d thought Pyro was one of those people. But apparently, he didn’t know them at all; didn’t know this person who openly discarded their mask, who’d let their precious art supplies get so ruined, who was willing and wanting to be held. As he was kneeling there, grappling with what to do about the sobbing Pyro, his eye landed on something lying at the corner of the room.

“Hey, Pyro, that’s not your usual mask is it?”

They looked up from where they’d buried themself in his neck, blinking with watering eyes. “N-no. We all got new uniforms from the catalog, remember?”

He remembered. Demo himself had been ecstatic to find they sold mercenary-grade kilts, and had ordered one right away. Almost everyone had been trying on some of the new cosmetics, including Pyro, and he slowly extracted himself from the other merc to go examine the gasmask.

Instead of having two eyeholes, it was a pure black sheet of protective plastic, surrounded by red rubber to give it shape. There was something odd about it that tickled the back of his mind, and he asked with a low toned dread, “Pyro. You said you used to see colors. Can you tell me a little more about that?”

“Y-yeah.” Pyro rubbed at their eyes. “It was all soft colors, and there were hills and grass and the Mayor was there. And rainbows…rainbows everywhere. I was the best at making rainbows.”

The description stirred a memory, long ago when Mann Co. had offered out little goggles that claimed to reduce eyestrain and had made the whole world bright with color. After several reports of headaches, Medic determined that the things did nothing for strain and were also lined with asbestos. Needless to stay, everyone had dropped the things hot. (Though to Demo’s knowledge Mann Co. had never actually taken them out of their store.)

“Your old one,” Demo said, holding it up. “It had ‘optical mask’ written on it, didn’t it?”

“I…I think. I never really saw it from the outside.”

“And how long have…” Demo swallowed. “When did the colors start going away?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really notice at first. Today…today was the first time I saw blood.” They curled their knees to their chest.

Demo didn’t want to push, but he had a nasty suspicion. “But when did it _start_ , Pyro?”

“A week?” They buried their face, muffling their voice until it was almost familiar again. “Is…Is the mask making me sick?”

Demo’s heart lurched in sympathy. “No lad. I think your old mask was making you sick. Seeing things that weren’t there.”

“The mask made the colors?” Before Demo could correct them, then sat bolt up, rushing to their closet and dragging out their old uniform, boneless and deflated like an animal’s skin. “Then they can come back! I’ll go back to my old mask and everyone can be friends again and-”

“Pyro, _no_ ,” Demo warned, stopping them with one leg already shoved in the suit. “You can’t put it back _on_.”

They looked up at him, hunched over, tears already springing back into their eyes. “I have to, I have to!” They ignored his attempts to grab them and began pulling it on. “Things can’t be like this, I have to go back.”

“But-”

“Don’t make me stay here,” they said with rising panic. “Please Demo. Don’t…don’t tell anyone. I’ll go back and things will be OK and no one will be scared anymore.”

Demo hung there, protest frozen on his lips as he watched the smaller merc struggle with the zipper. Could he do this? Could he really let them go back to wearing something that was poisoning them?

The question was answered by indecision. Pyro had zipped entirely into their old chemsuit, and was now grinning at him, as though he’d just said they could go to Disney for their birthday instead of sentencing them to…whatever asbestos did to a person.

“Thank you.” They walked up and kissed Demo on the cheek. “Thank you.”

And then they pulled on the mask and were gone again.

* * *

Demo thought, as he watched their Pyromaniac return to normal, torching BLUs across the battlefield with untamed glee, that this is not what it meant to befriend a dragon. That, although the firebug curled against him on nights around the campfire, that everyone congratulated him on getting them back on their feet, he did not feel like someone who had earned it.

He felt more like the man who had slew the beast than the one who had saved its shed skin.


	7. Lies, Damned Lies, and Valentines

“Have the RED team vandalized us in the middle of the night?” Medic asked, gazing around the common room which had been papered with tiny hearts. “What is with all the pink?”

“Ach, it’s Valentine’s day, boyo!” Demo told him with a hearty slap on the back. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Medic adjusted his glasses, which had fallen out of place with the overzealous display of masculine affection. “My wife and I are…estranged. I have not celebrated a Valentine’s day in a very long time.”

“Well, so long as you made your cards, you’re celebrating just fine.” When Medic didn’t respond, Demo pressed a, “you _did_ make some cards, right lad?”

“Cards for _who_? I told you I have not spoken to-”

“For the _team_ ya quack,” Demo snorted. “We always make cards for each other on Valentine’s day.”

“…Like kindergarteners,” Medic asked drily.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud doc,” Demo elbowed him. “It’s a tradition.”

Medic crossed his arms, and kicked a small paper heart that had fallen on his shoe. “Well no one told _me_ about it.”

At that, Demo finally paused. “Ah, I suppose everyone forgot to mention it to the rookie. Don’t worry though!” This time, Medic dodged the pat aimed at his shoulder. “Everyone knows you only got here a month or so ago, they won’t hold you to any obligations.”

“What a relief.” Medic rolled his eyes.

He was able to put the ridiculous conversation out of his mind thanks to the oncoming battle, slinging on his pack with a feeling of purpose. Dealing with REDs and avoiding Spies took most of his concentration, as a day that he went about distracted was a day he’d find quite a few Sniper shots through his head. However, as much as he’d dismissed Valentine’s by the midday break that afternoon, it appeared his teammates hadn’t.

He’d followed Heavy to the cover of the sentry nest, but as his partner was filling up Sasha, he noticed that Engie had laid out a few pieces of folded paper on top of the dispenser. Medic wandered closer. It took him a moment to parse what he was seeing, but then he remembered the travesty that had become of the common room and realized Demo had been dead serious about Valentine’s Day. Engineer’s valentines were spread out neatly, all unique, all cheerfully signed by members of the team. Scout had draw a rather good rendition of the man himself standing next to his sentry, a little heart between them. Sniper had written ‘THANKS TRUCKIE’ in block letters. Even Soldier had put in some effort, as he had used red, white, and blue construction paper to make what might have been the shape of Texas if you squinted enough.

Nearby, Pyro was showing off their own collection. Scout had also drawn a picture for them (of Mayor Balloonicorn), which they had delicately set in the grass, their other cards out before them. The one from Engie they were attacking with vigor, since the Engineer had been forward thinking enough to glue tiny pieces of candy to the folded paper.

“They’re all real nice Pyro,” he was chuckling. “Though maybe put them back in your pocket? Don’t want them to get dirty.”

Pyro nodded, and began shuffling them back into a pouch within their chemsuit.

“They take this very seriously, don’t they?” Medic noted absently about the pair.

Heavy, having loaded on the ammo required, turned and saw Medic mulling over Engineer’s cards. “Oh, da! Every year. We do not spend holidays together, so for team, is closest thing.”

As he spoke, he reached into his front pocket. Something with Demo’s handwriting dashed all over it appeared in his hand, obnoxiously saccharine with its copious hearts and overuse of the color red. Yet the Heavy Weapons Guy displayed it proudly, and Medic offered him a wry smile.

“I had no idea,” Medic mused.

“…Team forget to tell you?” Heavy rumbled. “Heavy see. Heavy _wondered_ why doctor did not give him one.”

Medic coughed lightly into his hand. “I wasn’t aware until this morning-”

“No, is alright. Heavy’s little joke.” He patted Medic on the shoulder, which was (surprisingly) more reserved than Demo’s attempt at the same. “We kill RED babies, that is gift enough, da?”

Medic agreed, and followed him off into battle. However, this time the threat of the loving spirit stuck, and Medic found himself skewered on the end of the Spy’s knife more than he was comfortable with. He tried to shake himself, to forget his teammates’ foolish obsession, but one thought kept rankling him: _he_ might have not known to send out cards, but why hadn’t anyone gotten _him_ anything?

They returned to BLU base with an embarrassing loss on their collars, though you wouldn’t know by looking. Everyone was in the common showing of their haul, passing around heart shaped cookies that someone had made last night and stuffed in the fridge. Medic tried one, and nearly gagged on how much sugar had been crammed into such a small package.

Apparently everyone had gotten the same memo about Demo’s cards, as each one came with a tiny novel vodka attached. Demo peeled off the last one (from Soldier with a picture of a shovel on it, saying simply _I Dig You_ ) with the utmost care, lining them up next to his whiskey bottle.

“Look!” he grinned to Soldier. “Me scrumpy’s birthed a litter!”

Soldier, who had taken to taping his own cards to his helmet, slapped him on the back. “Congratulations! You’re a grandfather!”

Scout, like Pyro, couldn’t help but flaunt his, claiming that he got the most out of anyone. When Sniper pointed out that _everyone_ got seven cards, he pivoted to say, “yeah well mine are the _best_ , quality over quantity Snipes.”

Medic shouldn’t have been irritated. He didn’t care about Valentine’s Day, not in the slightest, so why was he getting so terse about his teammates’ holiday cheer? Of course they didn’t get cards for the rookie, they probably would have gotten cards for their old Medic, not him.

That thought itself would have put anyone in a sour mood, but the tipping point was when he walked the corner and saw Spy delicately arranged bits of red-hued paper into a manila folder, smiling slightly as he set the last one down. Medic was close enough to read, saw Sniper’s handwriting, and also that the poem it was quoting was incomplete. _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height._ The next two lines were missing— Medic knew enough of poetry to glean that—which meant Sniper probably had the other half. All shuffled always with the other ones he’d gotten from Scout and Engie and Demo and _whoever_ , but the most important thing Medic could determine from the display was all those people had given Spy valentines too. _Spy_. Medic’s eye twitched. Before he knew it he was barreling past Spy, out past the others in order to get to the hallway. There were a couple exclamations of confusion, a few calls asking what was wrong, but Medic ignored them all.

He didn’t need their obligatory attempts to include him, he could see when he wasn’t wanted.

“Doctor! Wait!”

He considered not stopping for the deep voice behind him, but unless he wanted to go charging off onto the battlefield, his path would eventually take him back around base. He sighed, and turned to face the man behind him.

“Can I help you?” Medic snapped. There was no use pretending he wasn’t miffed.

“What is the matter?” Heavy asked. “Have not seen you this angry before.”

“Well that is not a big surprise considering we barely know each other, apparently.” Medic crossed his arms.

Heavy furrowed his brow. Always a man of few words, he either didn’t know what to say, or figured it was better not to antagonize Medic further, and so he settled for waiting for his teammate to elaborate.

Medic relented eventually, shoulders sagging as he exhaled. “I realize I am not… _part of the team_ so to speak. I understand I am not as close to you all as your old Medic was, and I do not blame you for not including me, but it is still… _difficult_ to watch everyone open cards and…not receive any myself.” God it sounded so _childish_ when he said it allowed. He was a doctor for god’s sake! He should be above such petty jealousies.

As his self consciousness closed in, he hunched, and failed to look at Heavy. It took the man saying, “doctor did not get valentines? Is not possible,” for Medic to turn back around and see him shaking his head. “At very least, _Heavy_ give card.”

“You…?” Medic unfolded his arms. “When?”

Heavy raised an eyebrow. “Did doctor not check locker?” When Medic blinked, Heavy added, “is where we put at start of day, so none get lost.”

“…Just like in kindergarten,” Medic finished the thought and pinched the bridge of his nose. “God I am such a _dummkopf_.”

Heavy chuckled, clearly glad to have resolved the situation. “Medic is far from. Come, we look now.”

So Medic did come, entering resupply and walking to his locker, taking a moment to brace himself as he grasped the handle. He turned it. Immediately, he was hit with an avalanche of purple, pink, and red, an absolute _tidal wave_ of valentines rushing out to greet him from where they’d been conglomerating inside his locker like a clogged artery.

There were so _many_ , decorated all with his class symbol or words of thanks. Pyro had made at least four, decorated with crayons and rainbow drawings, sticking slightly where the paint hadn’t dried. Medic picked one off the floor. Scout had drawn Archimedes beautifully, which was astounding considering the two hadn’t gotten along since the Über incident, and it must have been quite a strain to sit still long enough to capture the bird’s likeness. Engie had detailed out a list over every time Medic had saved his bacon in the past month, Spy had written something long and oddly heartfelt, Soldier had gifted him a coupon for one free haircut. The list went on.

It took Heavy gently touching his shoulder while he read Sniper’s uncharacteristically kind letter to realize he was holding his hand over his mouth. He cleared his throat, but despite that still couldn’t find words.

“Medic is part of team,” Heavy stated, matter of fact. “We appreciate. Do not forget that.”

Medic’s eyes fell on a large card, tucked behind the Quick-Fix in the back of the locker so it hadn’t come tumbling out with the rest. This one was unquestionably from Heavy. Medic wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.

Delicately, he reached out and took it, seeing it was nearly the size of a proper book, made out of two pieces of paper tied with a string. He gently gazed over the words inside, drinking them all in, and then softly spoke, “thank you mein friend.”

“Is no trouble.” Heavy squeezed his shoulder, and Medic could tell his friend was smiling by the chuckle in his voice. “Now! We go. Back to party, doctor should get to show off his cards too.”

“Yes, lets. But ah…not this one though,” Medic finished, softly folding Heavy’s card back up. “This one I will keep here.”

Heavy smiled. “If doctor likes.” With that, Medic followed him back to the party.


End file.
